


Mistletoe

by fengirl88



Series: The Old Bad Songs and other stories [6]
Category: Maurice (1987), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, Crossover Pairing, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once you start looking, it's everywhere: in the lobby, in the coffee-room, in the lounge, in the bar...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the "mistletoe kiss" square on my trope_bingo card. This fic follows on from Sleeper and Winter Sights, though it can be read as a standalone.

The hotel is as warm as roaring log fires and huge old radiators can make it – which is pretty warm – but the thought of what the weather's doing outside makes Lestrade grateful for all the blankets and quilts on the bed.

“Definitely my favourite view,” he says, lifting the sheet for another look.

Christ, Maurice is gorgeous like this, all tousled and flushed and heavy-eyed after that spectacularly good shag. Some days, Lestrade can't quite believe he's ended up with someone like this. He knows the feeling's mutual, though.

“Mustn't drop off, or we'll miss dinner,” Maurice says. 

“Mm,” Lestrade says. “Better set an alarm, you know what you're like.”

“What _I'm_ like?” Maurice says, mock-indignant. His breathing is getting slower and deeper; he's not far off now.

Lestrade just manages to set his phone to wake them before he falls asleep as well.

 

Dinner is strange; not the food, which is a nicer Scottish version of the usual hearty Christmas stuff, barely disguised by menu-speak, but the other guests. They hadn't been so much in evidence at breakfast, though Lestrade recognizes the old lady on her own who keeps tutting audibly at anyone talking above a whisper. She's obviously annoyed at the animated conversation between the two women over by the window – friends rather than lovers, Lestrade thinks. They don't look at each other the way lovers do, or touch when they think no-one's looking.

Mind you, that doesn't necessarily mean anything. He and Maurice still have to be careful in public, and though the taboo on women showing affection isn't as strong as it is for men, this is the sort of old-fashioned place where you might get trouble. He'd been pleasantly surprised when the desk clerk didn't bat an eyelid about their double room, though he suspects there might be a reason for that. 

The staff all seem to know the muttering old lady; Lestrade wonders if she lives there, or if she's a regular visitor at Christmas. She grumbles about everything except the Christmas pudding, though she still clears her plate. Probably brought up on _Waste not, want not_. The pearl necklace and fancy brooch suggest she's comfortably off, but you never know. Sherlock would probably spot some tell-tale detail, like the rubies in her brooch being really garnets.

 

Sherlock's not here, of course, which is one of many good things about this holiday. He'd had a major sulk when he found out Lestrade was going away.

“ _Why_ are you going?”

“Holiday,” Lestrade said. 

“Dull,” Sherlock said. “You'll hate it, you know you will.”

“I'm touched you're going to miss me,” Lestrade said. “Didn't know you cared.”

“Fuck off,” Sherlock said. “I just don't want to have to work with Dimmock if you get pneumonia.”

“They have central heating in Scotland these days,” Lestrade said. “Or so I'm told. Be good, and I'll bring you back a haggis.”

 

He shakes his head, as if to dislodge the thought of Sherlock. About time he had a break from all that.

The two women have finished, and he watches them leave the dining-room. They don't even glance at the big bunch of mistletoe hanging over the lintel.

Maurice has spotted it, though, and it's giving him ideas. Lestrade knows that look.

Seriously, they are not going to snog in the hotel dining-room. There must be another bunch of the stuff somewhere.

Once you start looking, it's everywhere: in the lobby, in the coffee-room, in the lounge, in the bar. All too public to be any use, and now Maurice is looking wistful...

“You know we don't need that,” Lestrade says, pulling him into their bedroom.

“I know,” Maurice says, triumphantly producing a sprig from his breast pocket. He hauls Lestrade close and kisses him passionately.

 

“Where did you get that?” Lestrade says, when he's got his breath back. Maurice is nothing if not thorough, and the frustration of not being able to kiss Lestrade earlier has obviously been doing things to him.

“I'm afraid I stole it,” Maurice says, doing his best to look remorseful.

“Did you now,” Lestrade says, in his best arresting-officer voice.

“I can't think what came over me,” Maurice says.

Lestrade snorts.

“I'm afraid we'll have to take you in charge, sir,” he says.

“All right, officer,” Maurice says, “I'll come quietly.”

Lestrade devoutly hopes the old lady doesn't have the room next door, because that was a lie if ever he heard one.


End file.
